


Sharp Edges

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Impact Play, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Oddly Timed Neuroscience Jokes, Reluctant Sadist, Sadism, Spanking, Sub Spencer Reid, apparently this is my otp now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:26:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25516489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: The corner of Spencer’s mouth crooks up in a shy half-smile. “I’m not gonna break. I’m stronger than I look.”“I’d fuckin’ hope so, cause you look like I could snap you with my pinky finger,” Sam says bluntly. Spencer ducks his head and laughs, bright and surprised, and Sam can feel the vibrations of it under his palm.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Sam Winchester
Comments: 15
Kudos: 158





	Sharp Edges

**Author's Note:**

> This includes mention of a memory that could potentially be triggery. Skip to the end for more info!

Sam hesitates outside the door for longer than he wants to admit. He’s been thinking about this for _years_ , now. It’s not like there’s any doubt left in his mind, but stepping through that door makes it real. Until he steps through that door, he can brush this off; he only acted on the impulses when he didn’t have a soul, right? They’re not his. Not really. 

They are. He knows it. 

Years of wondering, guilt, self-loathing. Months of research, asking around, making connections. Weeks since he got the invitation, weeks of nervous anticipation and doubt. Fuck if he’s backing out now, even if he does feel like he’s choking. 

He wipes sweaty palms on his jeans and goes inside. 

He’s not expecting Lindsey to remember him, but she does, and she greets him with a smile and a kiss on the cheek. She’s wearing knee-high boots and a corset that shoves her cleavage up toward her chin, and Sam feels underdressed in his plain black t-shirt, not to mention painfully inexperienced. 

“Want a soda or anything?” she asks brightly, like she’s the head of the PTA instead of the dungeon mistress. “Need me to show you around?” 

“No, thanks,” Sam says, tucking his hair behind his ears nervously. “I think… I think I might just want to hang back for a bit.” 

“Of course, sweetheart, whatever you need.” 

Sam’s good at hiding his fear; he’s practically made a career of it. He puts on his most confident mask and starts walking. 

He’s not really sure where to look, at first. His immediate instinct is to avert his eyes. There’s a startling amount of skin on display, but more importantly, there are scenes being played out all around him that are straight out of Sam’s fantasies - the dark, secret ones - the ones he couldn’t admit to, for most of his life. 

It took losing his soul to ask for what he really wanted. 

The memories from that time, back when something important was missing, are tinted red and foggy. He was selfish, when he didn’t have a soul. It’s the one thing he’s always vowed not to be. 

He met a girl in a bar, somewhere in Colorado, and he took her to whatever grimy motel he was calling home that night. When he asked, she giggled, giving him some stupid line about needing to be punished, but when she realized he didn’t just mean a couple light smacks on the ass, she asked him to stop. He shrugged, fucked her anyway, and told her to leave. 

The next night, he found a professional, and he made sure they negotiated the price before he took her back to the motel. Even then… Sam feels a twist of guilt when he remembers the moment her moans became whimpers of pain, the look of apprehension in her eyes when she realized she might be in over her head. She never used her safeword, but he knew she wasn’t comfortable with it. 

He’d made it up to her, of course, afterward, even before he paid her, but it wasn’t out of any selfless desire to see his partner enjoy herself. It was just ego, just another game. The predator in him just wanted to see if he could make her beg for more after she’d begged him to stop. 

When Sam got his soul back, there was a laundry list of foggy red memories that made him feel slimy and sick with shame, but that little vignette was one of the worst. 

Sam doesn’t want it to be like that. He doesn’t want to be that brutal, selfish person who got what he needed, no matter the cost. 

He wants romance: dinner and a movie, flowers, shy first kisses. He _wants_ those things, but he’s starting to realize that he needs more. He _needs_ that sharp edge of pain with his pleasure. He knows, logically, that there are people out there who need to feel it, in the same way he needs to cause it. It’s a matter of finding the right puzzle piece, is all. 

All around him, now, he hears people asking for _more, yes, harder,_ and there’s a sweet, breathless relief coursing through him. He pauses in front of a couple, watching the dom unclip his partner’s leather cuffs from where she’s chained to a ring in the wall. She’s smiling as he murmurs something Sam can’t hear. 

“Please,” she says, beaming up at her partner with this incredible blissed-out expression on her face. 

Sam’s stomach swoops with such an intense longing that it’s almost painful. He looks away. 

He _wants_ that. 

Sam glances around the room again, and his eyes catch on a man who looks like he should be in a college lecture hall, instead of a BDSM party. The guy sticks out like a sore thumb in this sea of black and red and leather; Sam can’t help but notice him, and once he notices, it’s hard to tear his gaze away. He’s wearing a sweater-vest and a tie, for fuck’s sake. He’s got a mop of long, messy hair that makes Sam want to tug. 

The longer Sam looks, the more he notices the sharp edges. The guy is tall and twig-thin, gangly, all elbows and angles. The line of his jaw looks like it was cut with a razor. 

It’s not just the shape of him, though, that’s making Sam think of glinting steel and the rasp of a whetstone. The guy is on his own, hanging back in the same way Sam is, observing… his eyes dart around the room, glancing back and forth, taking it all in with a bright, clear, whip-smart awareness. He’s not smiling, and there’s nothing about his body language that’s welcoming. If someone handled him the wrong way, he’d slice them open.

Sam’s hands twitch. He wants to fit his fingers to the angle of those bones, thumb along the underside of the jaw, index finger running up to the cheekbone. He imagines it would be a perfect fit. 

Sam shivers and looks away. 

He sneaks a glance again, a few seconds later. The guy’s looking right at him. Sam’s stomach flips. He smiles hesitantly, and gets a blatant assessment in return, an appraising up-and-down. Sam feels like he’s passed some sort of test when the guy starts walking toward him, weaving easily through the crowd. 

He stops abruptly when he’s in front of Sam, and Sam feels off-balance, somehow. 

“I’m Spencer,” he says, in a soft scratchy voice that makes Sam want to lean in to hear better. 

“Sam.” He sticks out his hand. 

Spencer doesn’t take it; he waves instead, an awkward little gesture that’s oddly goofy and endearing, even with the frown line creasing his forehead and the shrewd expression on his face. 

“You’re the new guy Lindsey was telling me about.” He tilts his head, almost birdlike as he blinks and waits. 

“I… guess so? Why would she…” 

“I assumed she meant new here, but you’re new to all of it, aren’t you?” It’s not a question. 

_Sharp,_ Sam thinks again, flustered. He shrugs. 

Spencer’s eyes flick over his face like he’s reading lines of text. There’s something closed-off about the way he’s holding himself, tension in his features, mistrustful or maybe defensive. 

Spencer licks his lips as he thinks, and Sam stares at his mouth. His mouth isn’t all points and angles like the rest of him; it’s plush and pink, wide, expressive. 

“Hey, Professor,” says a woman, brushing a hand down Spencer’s arm as she passes, and Spencer gives her a quirk of his lips that’s not quite a smile. 

“Are you really a professor?” Sam asks. 

“No. It’s just because of the way I dress.” He says it matter-of-factly, but Sam notices the way his eyes drop for a second. He’s self-conscious. 

“I can’t picture you in leather pants,” Sam says wryly. 

“But you’re trying, aren’t you?” Spencer asks, with a flicker of an amused, mischievous smile. It’s gone just as quick as it came, but it leaves Sam feeling warm and pleased. He already wants to see that smile again. 

“I think I missed the memo about the uniform,” he admits. 

Spencer glances around and says, “I can see how adhering to a certain set of aesthetic cues would help members of a subculture identify each other in everyday life, but it does seem unnecessary here. Something about dressing up just to meet expectations seems disingenuous.” 

“You’re really not a professor?” Sam asks, almost unbearably curious. 

“No.” Spencer hesitates. “To answer your earlier question, Lindsey told me to keep an eye out for you because she seemed to think we were here for… similar reasons.” 

“Oh,” Sam manages. He feels hot and cold and panicky, and he wishes he’d gotten a drink, if only to have something to do with his hands. “You, um. You like…” 

“Pain,” Spencer says crisply, with an almost clinical detachment. “I enjoy experiencing pain. And you enjoy inflicting it.” 

“Yeah,” Sam says, mouth dry. 

Spencer’s watching him closely, frowning again. “There’s nothing wrong with it, you know.” 

“I… yeah,” Sam says. “I guess I know that? Just, um, I always thought of myself as pretty traditional. Not big on one night stands, I like… relationships.”

“And you don’t think people who are into BDSM can have traditional relationships?” Spencer asks, smirking slightly. 

_Foot, meet mouth._

“No, not like that, I just - if I’m into someone, I want to treat them right. I’m a romantic.” 

“A beating can be very romantic,” Spencer deadpans. 

Sam sputters out a laugh. “I - I guess. Sure.” 

“So, what, you’ve always been about the Al Green and missionary, and you figured you’d try something new?” His voice is dry and amused, and he’s watching Sam, just waiting for a reaction to the needling. 

“Not exactly,” Sam says, grimacing. 

“What, exactly, then?” 

Sam can’t remember the last time anyone made him feel like this, like the conversation is a fencing match that he’s losing spectacularly; Spencer disarmed him already and is still toying with him, landing one glancing blow after another, just to see if he can. 

Sam stammers for a second before saying, “I’ve always been interested in this, I just - never had an opportunity, really.” 

“Don’t lie. You don’t have any reason to be embarrassed,” Spencer says, frowning. 

Sam sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. He forces himself to spit out the truth: “I always wanted to think of myself as a nice guy. The things I want… there’s nothing nice about what I want, when it comes to sex. I couldn’t admit that until recently.”

Spencer smiles, and his whole face is incandescent with it. He tamps down the wattage of the smile with a twitch of his lips, eyes darting around as he thinks. Sam gets the feeling he already knew the answer, and was just waiting to see whether Sam would admit it. 

“It’s not always about sex,” Spencer offers. “Sometimes you just… want to get out of your head, you know?” 

Sam considers that for a moment, and he looks at Spencer, watching his fingers as they tap a silent rhythm against the side of his leg. 

“Is that what you want?” he asks, and he’s proud of himself for how steady his voice sounds. 

“Maybe.” Spencer meets his gaze evenly. “But you’re very strong, very inexperienced, and very anxious, and that’s not usually a good combination in someone who gets off on being in charge.” 

Sam bristles instinctively before he hears the question in it. 

“That’s not - it’s not like that,” he says with a sigh. “It’s not a power trip thing. It’s not about overpowering someone, I don’t want to tie you up, I don’t - it’s not like that. And I’m not inexperienced.” 

Spencer’s eyes narrow. “You said -” 

“I’m new to _this_ ,” Sam interrupts, and gestures around them at the party. “I’m not new to… pain.” 

For the first time, there’s a hint of curiosity in Spencer’s eyes, an inkling that he doesn’t have Sam quite as figured out as he’d thought. 

“Why are you here, then? What do you want to get out of this?” Spencer asks. 

Sam thinks about that, trying not to fidget as he figures out how to say it. 

“I don’t _want_ it to be just about… what I get out of it,” Sam says slowly. “I want someone who - who needs it the same way I do, so that it’s not… I don’t want it to be something I do _to_ someone, I want to do this _with_ someone.” He hesitates and adds, “With you. If you want.” 

He can see Spencer analyzing him, analyzing his words, weighing the odds, calculating the risks. 

“I’m not going to have sex with you. Not tonight,” Spencer says coolly. “You can touch yourself, but I’m not going to touch you.” 

Sam shrugs. “Okay.” 

“No tools, no toys, no restraints, not the first time.” His voice is dispassionate, matter-of-fact, like he’s reading out a grocery list. “Just your hands. You can scratch, but don’t draw blood.” 

“Okay,” Sam says. He’s glad Spencer said it before he had to admit he wasn’t confident enough, yet, to use a flogger on a stranger. His voice cracks. “Safeword?” 

“Lateral orbitofrontal cortex.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Yes, I’m aware that it’s three words.” 

It startles a laugh out of Sam. “That’s not what I meant.” 

Spencer’s mouth twitches as he suppresses a smile. “Seriously. But I only say ‘stop’ if I really mean it.” 

“I understand. If I didn’t get the joke, would you have called this whole thing off?”

Spencer’s lips twitch again. He just shrugs. “Anything else we need to talk about?” 

“After?” Sam asks. “What can I - how do I help, afterward?” 

Spencer pauses, a strange expression flickering over his face for a moment before he says, “Don’t leave?” 

It sounds like a question. Sam doesn’t think it was supposed to sound like a question. 

“Of course. Is that all?” 

Spencer shrugs. “That’s all. Just. Stay, for a minute. I’ll tell you, if there’s anything else I need. That’s the only thing I… can’t always bring myself to ask for, in the moment.” 

He gives Sam a very practiced, casual sort of smile, nonchalant, blinking up at him innocently as if to say _I’m fine! See?_

The protector in Sam is snarling. He just nods calmly. 

“What about you?” Spencer asks. 

Sam frowns, taken aback by that. It didn’t occur to him that he might need to be taken care of. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Is that okay?” 

“Yes. That’s okay,” Spencer says. This time his little half-smile is sweet and genuine. 

Sam looks around nervously. “Is there anywhere more private? This isn’t really...” 

“Agreed,” Spencer says. “There’s an open door policy, I’m sure Lindsey explained, but there are other rooms where there won’t be a crowd.” 

He leads Sam through the living room, heading up a flight of stairs and down a hallway. Sam catches glimpses of scenes through three open doors before they reach the last room. It’s small, some sort of office, he thinks, lit dimly enough to feel comfortable. There’s no bed, just a loveseat, an end table, and a desk with an office chair, but the desk holds an assortment of toys, chains, and condoms instead of a computer. 

It’s quieter, here. It feels warmer, too, but that might just be Sam’s nerves kicking in. He glances at the open door instinctively as Spencer starts to loosen his tie. 

Spencer notices, of course. “There’s an understanding, with the regulars, that this is where you go if you don’t really want an audience.” 

Sam nods and turns to get a better look at some of the implements on the desk, skin prickling with adrenaline. He runs his fingers over the sleek handle of a riding crop, imagining the sound it would make on skin. 

He’s all too aware of his own inexperience, and he’s all too aware of how badly he could hurt someone with a misplaced blow from the gorgeous leather whip that’s lying next to the crop. He’d want to practice, first, and he’d want to be with someone he trusts, but there’s no denying that he _wants_. 

_Someday_ , he thinks, and shivers. 

When he turns around again, Spencer’s putting a neatly folded pile of clothes on the loveseat. He brushes his hair out of his eyes as he straightens up, tilting his chin almost defiantly to meet Sam’s gaze. He still looks sharp around the edges, from the angular shape of his Adam’s apple, bobbing as he swallows, to the jut of his hipbones. There’s something brittle about the way he holds himself. 

“Where do you want me?” he asks quietly, with a crack in his voice that belies the careful blankness on his face. “Um, bearing in mind that most of this room is probably highly unsanitary and I’m something of a germaphobe. Minimal contact with furniture would be… ideal.” He wrinkles his nose and Sam huffs out a laugh. 

“Over here. Brace yourself against the wall.” 

Spencer walks over silently and settles with his forearms on the wall, his head bowed, and goes completely still. 

Sam lets himself stare for one long moment, taking it all in: the delicate curve of his bent neck, the prominent ridge of his spine, the lean muscles that shift under pale skin, shoulder blades that Sam wants to run his thumb across to test whether they’d cut him as easily as he imagines. 

There’s tension in the way he’s holding himself, though. Sam frowns to himself and steps closer. 

Sam’s been hiding this, his whole life; he’s been burying this sharp, nasty piece of himself, ignoring need in favor of romance, affection, emotion. He didn’t think they could coexist. 

He has a feeling that Spencer’s been doing the opposite: slipping into this formal, scripted exchange of limits and safewords and scientific explanations, being perfectly clear about what he _needs_ but never admitting what he _wants_. 

The party is still going on outside, but the silence between them is heavy enough to drown out the noise of it. Sam takes one deep breath, then another, syncing his inhales to the steady rise of Spencer’s shoulders, and sidles closer, standing at Spencer’s side where he’s visible.

He hesitates for a moment, wondering if he’s crossing a line, before following his instinct and resting a gentle hand on Spencer’s back, right between his shoulderblades. Spencer doesn’t flinch at the touch, but Sam can tell he’s surprised. 

“You good?” Sam asks quietly. 

Spencer turns his head slightly, looking sideways at Sam through long lashes. 

“I’m good,” he whispers, in that soft, smoky voice.

“Okay.” 

“Sam?”

“Hmm?”

The corner of Spencer’s mouth crooks up in a shy half-smile. “I’m not gonna break. I’m stronger than I look.” 

“I’d fuckin’ hope so, cause you look like I could snap you with my pinky finger,” Sam says bluntly. Spencer ducks his head and laughs, bright and surprised, and Sam can feel the vibrations of it under his palm. 

“Fair enough,” Spencer says, grinning as he goes still again. He’s not tense any more, though. He’s calm, breathing evenly under Sam’s hand. 

Sam rests his fingertips on the nape of Spencer’s neck for a moment, making his intentions clear. The first drag of his nails is gentle, nowhere near enough pressure to sting. He twists his wrist to drag them back up along the same path, still gentle, and then moves to repeat the process on a new strip of skin, once and then again. He can see the goosebumps running down Spencer’s arms, the way his neck arches, silently asking for more. 

“Are you sure?” Sam asks. 

His voice is quiet, but there’s no hesitation when he whispers, “Yes.” 

Sam curls his fingers in and drags one knuckle down the knobby bumps of his vertebrae. 

“Okay,” he repeats. 

Every lingering bit of doubt and hesitation and anxiety disappear with the first sharp _crack_ of his palm coming down. Spencer hisses in a breath, shivers, and Sam exhales with him. 

His body goes fizzy and focused, suddenly. It’s like in the last moments of a fight, when Sam knows he’ll win, he knows exactly what to do, he sees what needs to happen with absolute clarity, and all that’s left is to trust his muscles to get the job done. It feels good. It feels like this is exactly where Sam’s meant to be. 

Two more blows, in quick succession, and the next exhale is more like a gasp. The sound sends heat lancing through Sam’s gut. 

He’s careful about it, precise, still holding back, as he moves lower. He knows how to use his hands, how to hit with just the right amount of force, which spots will hurt, which spots he should avoid unless he wants to cause real damage. Sam’s been practicing for this his whole life, in a way. 

He lands a light smack on one thigh, then the other, then harder, on the same spots. Sam’s vision tunnels down to the red flush that’s already blossoming on Spencer’s pale skin. Something dark and possessive curls in his stomach. 

The next impact pulls a rough, gorgeous sound from Spencer’s throat. Sam gives him a second to recover before doing it again, and then again, until his palm is smarting with the force of it. 

He pauses abruptly. He can see the way Spencer tenses, waiting for a blow that doesn’t come. Instead Sam brushes the tips of his fingers over red, heated skin, feather-light, making Spencer shudder, before dragging three fingernails delicately up his spine again. 

“I like the way my handprints look on you,” Sam says quietly. Spencer sucks in a shaky breath. Sam rakes his fingernails down again, digging in this time, and Spencer’s exhale breaks on a low, gravelly groan. 

The raised red lines trail down his back, a perfect set of three all the way down the right side of his spine. Sam takes a moment to admire them before giving him a matching set on the left. He traces those lines again, smoothing them with his fingertips, fascinated by the feel of raised flesh. 

Spencer is trembling, but he’s still, waiting, ready, and there’s a dizzying level of trust implicit in that stillness. 

Sam’s blindsided by the gut-punch of arousal he feels at that realization. He takes a deep breath, putting it to the side. He’s determined to prove to himself that this doesn’t have to be selfish. 

He brings his hand down again with a powerful snap of his wrist that makes Spencer whimper. His skin must be sensitive now, blood rushing to every spot Sam’s marked, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. 

Sam puts some muscle into the next one, and that’s saying something. He’s strong, he knows he is, and he pauses to gauge the reaction. Spencer lets out another of those breathy, beautiful whimpers, and Sam can see the shudder that goes through him. Sam rakes his fingernails up the tender, overheated skin he just hit, nothing gentle about it, and Spencer arches his back, squirming slightly. 

He’s panting; they both are. Sam realizes that they’re breathing in sync, and he takes another deep heaving breath that matches the rise and fall of Spencer’s shoulders. 

Sam gives in to the urge, finally, and tangles his fingers in Spencer’s hair, tugging his head back so Sam can see his face clearly: eyes closed, lashes fluttering, a sheen of sweat on those lethal cheekbones, his mouth slack. There’s a flush decorating the pale skin, patchy, spilling all the way from his cheeks to the hollow of his neck and down his chest. He looks totally relaxed, peaceful, like he could melt under Sam’s hands. 

“ _Fuck_ , you’re gorgeous,” Sam bites out, before he can help himself, and then asks, “You good?” 

“Yes.” It’s a gasp more than a word. Spencer’s eyes are still closed. 

“More?”

Spencer licks his lips and swallows hard, and Sam watches the way his throat moves with it. He whispers, “Please.” 

Heat thuds through Sam’s belly, urgent and overwhelming. He ignores it, ignores how hard he is, ignores everything but the way Spencer’s head lolls forward when Sam releases his hair and the way he moans at the next hit. 

Sam’s not holding back any more. 

There’s a rhythm to it: the sound of his palm, _crack_ , and the choked, rasping sound that it pulls from Spencer’s lips, _nnngh_ , and the steady _thump-thump_ of Sam’s heartbeat pounding in his ears, and it crescendos quickly, until the ragged cries turn desperate and wrecked. 

“Last one,” he warns. 

_Crack_.

“I need -” 

Sam thinks of Spencer’s “no touching” rule, but he can’t bring himself to move away entirely. He tangles his fingers in Spencer’s hair again, tugging gently and then combing through the messy curls, and Spencer leans into it, catlike. He lets out a deep, ragged groan as he touches himself, movements fast and urgent.

“Did so good,” Sam says fiercely. His fingers twist and tug, sharp enough to sting, and he curls the other hand around Spencer’s side, digging his thumbnail into the ridge of his hipbone. That’s all it takes; he can feel the head-to-toe shudder, the last surge of tension before Spencer shakes almost violently under his hands.

Spencer crumples like a puppet with his strings cut. 

“C’mere, I’ve got you,” Sam says hoarsely, getting an arm around him and maneuvering so that they both have their backs to the wall as they slide to the floor. 

Spencer ends up tucked against Sam’s side, folded under his arm like he belongs there. He’s breathing harsh and heavy, and Sam cups the round of his shoulder with one hand, running his thumb in mindlessly soothing circles, waiting for him to come back to himself. 

As for Sam… he’s hard, still, more turned on than he can remember being in a long time, but there’s the strangest sense of _calm_ settling into his body, a bone-deep satisfaction that has nothing to do with sex. 

This isn’t the same vicious, feral sort of satisfaction that he remembers. It’s nothing like crimson-tinted memories of lashing out rough and wild, like some sort of savage animal he’d unleashed. There’s nothing selfish about this.

He closes his eyes for a moment, breathless at the wave of blissed-out relief that’s crashing down around him. 

“You good?” he asks, falling back on what seems to be his mantra for the evening. 

“I’m… no, not really, hang on,” Spencer mumbles, and Sam flinches, moving away instinctively. 

“Shit, sorry, what -” 

“No, wait, that’s not - just… can you reach the tissues, or do I actually have to stand up right now?” Spencer asks, with a disgruntled sort of glare at the box of Kleenex on the end table. 

Sam laughs, awkward and self-conscious. Spencer blinks owlishly up at him, shaking his hair out of his eyes. Then a smile spreads over his face slowly and he’s laughing too as Sam leans and stretches over to grab the box. 

“The male orgasm is really inconvenient sometimes,” Spencer mutters. 

Sam lets out another snort of laughter, looking away to give him some privacy as he cleans up. He’s not sure what the etiquette of this whole situation is; it’s such a strange thing, oddly intimate, and even though Sam’s still fully-dressed, he feels exposed in a way he’s not used to. 

“Now I’m good,” Spencer says quietly. He’s got his knees tucked up to his chest, arms wrapped loosely around them, but he tilts his head back against the wall and aims a hazy, heavy-lidded stare at Sam. His lips part and curl up in a barely-there smile, and his tongue flicks out over the pink curve of his lower lip. 

Those edges that Sam first noticed are harder to see, now; he’s all soft eyes and softer mouth, flushed skin, messy hair… all except the line of his jaw. That’s still wickedly, unmistakably sharp. 

Spencer should come with a warning sign: _handle with care_. Sam’s not sure who that sign would be protecting. It could be _handle with care: fragile_ , or, just as easily, _handle with care: sharp edges_. 

Either way, there’s a good chance of someone getting hurt here. 

“Can I kiss you?” Sam asks. 

Spencer’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly with surprise, and his pupils are huge and dark, liquid-looking, hypnotic. He blinks, slowly, and suddenly looks about ten years younger. He’d been so self-assured ordering Sam not to draw blood; that confidence is gone, now, like he’s had less experience with kissing than with telling people how to hit him. 

_Oh_ , Sam thinks, and tries not to let his own surprise show on his face. 

“Yes,” Spencer whispers. He licks his lower lip again before adding, thready and shy, “Please.” 

Sam reaches out slowly. His pinky, ring, and middle fingers curl around the side of Spencer’s neck, sliding through thin, sweat-damp strands of hair. The L-shape of his thumb and index finger slots to the angle of Spencer’s jaw. He can feel the bone under thin skin, the way the pad of his thumb nestles so neatly between the hard edge of jawbone and the soft give of vulnerable throat. 

It’s a perfect fit.

**Author's Note:**

> Sam thinks about a memory from when he was soulless in which he inflicted a level of pain that tested the previously negotiated limits of a BDSM encounter with a sex worker. She never used her safeword to end the scene, but she did ask him to stop.


End file.
